


Optimist

by orphan_account



Series: unrelated tumblr shorts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, anderson and his dinosaurs, anderson's a cool guy, crack crack crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Anderson tries to be nice to Sherlock and gets kidnapped for his trouble.  Mycroft concedes to a breakfast date.





	Optimist

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [anderson](http://problematic-just-because.tumblr.com/post/175703358074)

Sherlock is a cool guy.

 

He's this tall, gangly kid, and he barrels into crime scenes with all the intensity of a derailed train.

 

Philip sees a bit of himself in the kid, really.

 

They both work forensics, more or less. They're both a little pale. And they're both new to the unit.

 

In fact, until Sherlock Holmes came along, Philip Anderson was the newest guy on the team.

 

So he feels a bit, well, responsible, perhaps, for welcoming the rookie. He's been there. Time to pay it forward now.

 

“Hey Sherlock!” Philip says, cheery despite the freezing wind, pulling on his latex gloves as he steps onto the crime scene. Sherlock is crouched over the bloodied victim, paying attention to little else.

 

Philip takes the cold shoulder (ha) with aplomb and readies his own gloves and evidence bags.

 

“Stop,” comes Sherlock’s resonant baritone voice. Philip freezes in his tracks.

 

“What?” he asks, craning his head around to look to see if he's accidentally tread on something of importance.

 

“Stop  _ talking _ ,” Sherlock says with a hiss. 

 

Philip purses his lips.

 

Okay, so. Sherlock could be a bit prickly sometimes. It's understandable. He's young. He's new. He probably doesn't feel secure with his place on the team yet. Philip stills, quiet, and waits.

 

And waits.

 

And waits.

 

“So,” he says, when Sherlock’s done nothing but crouch beside the corpse with his fingers steepled before him. “Looks like blunt force trauma from behind—”

 

“Oh, Anderson you  _ pedestrian _ , will you  _ please _ just let me think in silence for  _ two God-forsaken minutes _ ?” Sherlock moans, hands to the sky in supplication. 

 

Okay, so, Sherlock could also be a bit of a drama queen. That was one thing Philip thought they did not have in common. 

 

“Guys,” Lestrade says, striding over. “Still a crime scene, yeah? Keep it down. Sherlock, Anderson, assessments?”

 

Sherlock launches into a series of “deductions” and Philip chimes in with his own, not minding that Sherlock interrupts once or twice as they discuss leads. For some reason Sherlock thinks it's the gardener, but that's just preposterous, isn't it, because the footprints are clearly ladies’ shoes. 

 

.

 

“Sherlock!” Philip calls from across the street. There's traffic, and it makes sense Sherlock might not have heard him. No matter, he manages to cross the street and get into the waiting cab before Sherlock’s closed the door.

 

“Lucky seeing you here just when DS Lestrade rang! Now we can share the fare over, huh?”

 

Sherlock looks a bit under the weather and even groans a little. Philip pats his shoulder in sympathy.

 

“By the way, how were you so sure that it was the gardener the last time? All signs pointed to the wife, and we hadn't questioned anyone yet.”

 

“It was the  _ ash _ ,” Sherlock says in the brooding way of his. “As usual, Anderson, you  _ see  _ but you do not  _ observe. _ ”

 

“I'm not sure those words are as different as you think they are, Sherlock,” he replies easily. Ah, but Sherlock really was so fond of witticisms. Like those things written on the posters people put up in their classrooms and offices meant to motivate. The ones with cats on them. Philip wondered when his birthday was. Maybe he could get Sherlock a whole calendar of them.

 

Sherlock shoots him sort of an odd look, before muttering and gesturing what seems to be sort of a prayer and the rest of the short trip is had in silence.

 

Philip really didn't pin Sherlock for the religious type, but hey, people had layers. Like onions.

 

.

 

The unit gets called in to a double suicide-murder and halfway through DNA sample collections Sherlock barges in, again without even greeting Philip.

 

“Sherlock, good to see y--”

 

“There was poison involved.”

 

“Yeah, we already got that the gun was a decoy but—”

 

“Get me the toxicology report. I'll be in my lab. You know how to research me, Lestrade.”

 

And then he is gone.

 

.

 

Couple weeks later there's a string of bodies fished out of the Thames. Literally, stringed together. Five of them.

 

“Collusion,” Sherlock proclaims ominously from his perch on the bridge in a breathy stage whisper. Philip cranes his head up and waves.

 

“Hey Sherlock.”

 

“Move, Anderson,” is his only warning before he leaps down from the perch, coat billowing behind him like bat wings. Philip hadn't quite gotten where or what exactly Sherlock wanted him to move—

 

—when he jumps

 

and the two of them tumble—

 

—head over heels

 

limbs flailing—

 

past the corpses—

 

—and into the filthy water.

 

.

 

There really was no warning. There really was no  _ sign _ that their relationship was soon to sour, but Philip remembers quite vividly the exact moment it did.

 

Sherlock is sulking outside Lestrade’s office when Philip realises Sherlock’s rarely been in the office proper, and he must be feeling a bit nervous and even shy, maybe. So he rolls his chair over and greets the tall young man, pterodactyl figurine in hand.

 

“Hey Sherlock!” he says.

 

Sherlock turns, very slowly, to face him. He drops his gaze briefly to the figurine in Philip’s hand before he looks away, but Philip notices.

 

“Oh, this? Pterodactyl, to scale too. Painted it myself, it's—”

 

“Boring,” Sherlock says with a sigh.

 

“Um?”

 

“Dinosaurs. How dull.”

 

“Now, look here,” Philip starts, trying to reasonable.

 

“Nothing but overgrown chickens,” Sherlock continues, unaware of Philip's growing horror. 

 

“You take that back,” he says with a gasp. 

 

“Perfectly dull hobby for a perfectly dull mind,” Sherlock says, paying no attention. 

 

“They are  _ not— _ ”

 

“Basically scaly emus,” Sherlock says with a wry, crooked smile to himself. And it's the last thing he says, before Philip lunges, knocking them both out of their chairs and onto the station floor.

 

.

 

“I won’t stand for it, Sergeant, I won’t,” Philip says.

 

Lestrade’s head is in his hands, defeated. He has not the strength to even look him in the eye, the traitor.

 

“Anderson,” Lestrade says, long suffering. “The dinosaurs are dead. They have no feelings for Sherlock Holmes to hurt. Just let it go.”

 

“I won’t do it,” Philip insists. “I won’t work with the man. He is an uneducated, bigoted heathen.”

 

“Alright, alright Anderson,” Lestrade holds up his hands. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

 

“It’s a matter of personal conviction, Sergeant,” Philip says, putting his foot down. Both literally and metaphorically. 

 

Lestrade sighs.

 

.

 

Philip’s completely justified righteous indignation is to blame for what happens next. 

 

Had Sherlock not said those awful, horrible things, Philip would doubtless have been paying more attention as he made to cross the street outside New Scotland Yard, and there would have been no way he wouldn’t have seen what was coming next.

 

But he was hurried, and blinded by hurt feelings, and walked straight into his own demise. Two gloved hands reached for him and pushed him into the open door of the waiting black SUV with tinted windows, and he never saw it coming. 

 

.

 

Philip pounds on the divider of the car obscuring his view of the car’s driver, but to no avail.

 

“I work for the police!” Philip exclaims. “This is ridiculous! You don’t just kidnap a member of the homicide forensics team! What a terrible way to commit a crime!”

 

He gets no reply, but the car soon slows to a stop. He listens for footsteps, wondering if it is better to go quietly and hope they release him unhurt if he is cooperative, or to try to bludgeon the abductor’s face in the second the door opens.

 

The lock pops up, the door opens, and Philip is momentarily stunned still at the sight of a beautiful, dashing tall drink of water standing just feet away from the door the driver has opened for him.

 

“Um.”

 

Philip blinks, before remembering himself and stepping out of the car. He looks around, trying to catalogue as many details as he can so when he escapes they’ll be able to pinpoint his abductors and bring them to justice, and so that he can track down this beautiful man’s name and number.

 

“No need to try figuring out where we are, Mr. Anderson,” the elfin, auburn-haired man says. His voice is like a silk dressing gown, lined with velvet, and Philip wants it all over him. “It won’t do you any good, and in any case, we’re in the parking garage of a perfectly respectable four star hotel.”

 

“Um?”

 

The man straightens himself, holding an—umbrella? before him, leaning on it like a cane.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man says.

 

Philip squints.

 

“You’re not him,” Philip says. “I know who  _ Sherlock Holmes _ is.”

 

The man looks completely baffled.

 

“Yes, of course you do. I would like to talk about Sherlock Holmes,” he says.

 

Ah. Made sense.

 

“Oh,” Philip says. “And your name is…? Since you seem to know mine already, that is.”

 

The man gives him something of a smug smile but no answer.

 

“Let’s not talk about me, let’s talk about Sherlock. He’s a rather pesky one, isn’t he?” the man asks. Philip frowns. Upset as he is at Sherlock, he doesn’t like where this seems to be going.

 

“Always causing trouble, always getting in the way of the law as he carries on with what he thinks is  _ solving crimes _ . Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just make him… go away…?” 

 

The mystery man says this in a way that sends chills down Philip’s spine, but not all in a good way. Sure, he’s giving off a vibe that’s part Super Secret Agent Spy 007 Bond, James Bond, and part otherworldly-creature-of-the moonlight.

 

But what he’s insinuating—well. That’s just not done. Not to one of their own. 

 

Philip put his foot down, metaphorically and literally, taking a step forward. He sighs, shaking his head. He crosses and uncrosses his arms because by God he doesn’t want to, but he’s got to do it.

 

“Now look,” he says. “I don’t know who you think you are. I don’t know  _ who _ you are. But Sherlock is a valuable member of our team! He may not be a detective proper, but he is a freelancer and he gets results! He might not always be the most pleasant fellow to work with, but by God is he not a clever one. He solves every case he takes on!” 

 

“And yeah, maybe sometimes he doesn’t care enough about the victims, or the people, but every crime Sherlock solves means another criminal, another murderer off the streets. Every crime Sherlock Holmes solves makes for a safer London. I think we can put up with a little bit of bad manners and childishness from a young man like that if it means we’re able to protect the good people of the city.”

 

Philip huffs, and the man blinks back at him. They’re at a quiet stalemate. It is all quite unexpected.

 

Philip clears his throat.

 

“So um. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

 

The man gives him a thin smile, and nods past Philip toward the driver.

 

“That will be all, Mr. Anderson. Good day, now.”

 

As the driver approaches and guides Philip back to the car, he cranes his head around to watch the tall, mysterious man stride away.

 

.

 

“The  _ weirdest thing _ happened to me, you’ll never guess,” Philip says three days later lying on the ground in an approximation of how the widow landed when she fell out of the third story window. Sherlock sighs noisily as he rearranges Philip’s arms for the second time in as many minutes.

 

“Will you  _ hold still _ ,” Sherlock grumbles.

 

“I got kidnapped,” Philip said. “And he wanted to talk about  _ you. _ ”

 

Sherlock freezes. He’s quiet for a long moment, and Philip tries to look at him without moving his head too much from the position.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Shut up, Anderson. You were abducted, not kidnapped. You’re much too old to be  _ kidnapped _ .”

 

“Hey, you watch that show too?”

 

“Shut up, please.”

 

He purses his lips.

 

“What did he look like?” Sherlock blurts out, curiosity getting the better of him.

 

“Beautiful,” Philip says dreamily. “Legs for days, sharp pinstripe suit. Mischievous, grey-blue eyes. A posh accent I could eat with a spoon.”

 

Sherlock gags.

 

“Quite the poet, are you?” Sherlock scoffs. “And this giant, bumbling, limpid-blue eyed creature you just described must have been my brother. Please put him out of your mind immediately, and forever.”

 

Philip sits up with a jolt.

 

“Corpses don’t move!”

 

“He’s your brother!” Philip gasps, relieved, jubilant, all of the best of emotions rolled into one. The mystery man had a name! A relative! A direct contact!

 

“Oh you have to introduce me,” Philip says, earnest,  grabbing ahold of Sherlock’s hand before Sherlock practically shrieks and jerks it back away.

 

“What  _ for? _ ” Sherlock spit out.

 

“I’m interested,” Philip says, as if it were obvious.

 

“In  _ what _ ?” Sherlock asks, aghast.

 

“Dating him,” Philip says slowly, like he’s explaining it to someone who is particularly slow. Usually Sherlock isn’t this slow.

 

Sherlock’s mouth is doing a weird impression of a toad, and that’s all the answer he gets from him before the man throws his hands up in the air and stomps off, yelling for Lestrade.

 

.

 

Philip gets a call an hour after midnight that night, or well, technically early the next day, and yawns in lieu of a hello.

 

“I heard you were looking for me,” comes the voice on the other end of the line, and oh, Philip would recognize that voice anywhere.

 

“Oh! Mr. Holmes,” he says, stifling another yawn. “Oh I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

 

“It’s Mycroft,” he says pleasantly. “Forgive the late hour, I’m still on American time. It’s these negotiations, you see.”

 

“Oh that’s fine, fine,” Philip says, dragging a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the sleep. “Really not a problem. I was just brushing my...socks.”

 

“...you were brushing your socks.”

 

“Yeah,” Philip says sleepily, groping at the nightstand for his tablet. “Say, Mycroft, how do you spell that?”

 

“Spell it? I suppose as much as it sounds, M-Y-”

 

Philip taps away at the tablet keyboard.

 

“Are you Googling me?”

 

Philip stops and pulls the phone away from his ear, squinting at it. Sherlock did warn him something about his brother being omniscient. 

 

“...no.” He was. 

 

“I’ll forgive you the lie this time, Mr. Anderson, if you tell me what exactly you were looking  _ for _ .”

 

“Philip, please,” Philip says. “Mr. Anderson sounds so formal. No one calls me that. Really, no one calls me that.”

 

“Philip, then.”

 

Philip grins into the receiver.

 

“Lunch,” he says.

 

“A meal typically had midday, yes, I’ve heard of it.”

 

“I figure dinner is too forward, but perhaps we could start with lunch…?”

 

The pause on the line is not a good one. It’s hesitant and the mood is off and Philip would be more worried if he had been more lucid, and after a beat there is a short sigh.

 

“You’ve sorely underestimated me if you think you’ve any material you can hold over me based on Sherlock’s—”

 

“Heyheyhey, hey,” Philip says, jolting awake. Blackmail? Was he insinuating blackmail?  “I’m—what? No, no, I just want to. God I knew I should have started with coffee.”

 

“Coffee,” Mycroft says wryly.

 

“Yeah like, ‘hey, you want to get coffee?’ when neither of you likes coffee, but you just want to sort of sit around a flirt and maybe get to know each other see if you can get a kiss in and maybe a nightcap if not a snog.”

 

“So you’re trying to get your hands up my shirt, then,” is his reply, tone not improving.

 

“No, no. no, I—oh, I see what you’re doing. Call me at nearly two in the morning when I’m barely awake to get a confession out of me huh, you super spy agent,” Philip says, yawning again. “Good move, good move. Let me take you out for coffee?”

 

Another pause, but contemplative this time. Or so Philip would like to think.

 

“The trip from my residence to my office is twenty minutes by car, and thirty-five minutes if I take a detour that stops by your own flat.”

 

“Um.”

 

“I can spare some time for a coffee—”

 

“Or tea. You seem more like the tea type. I like a good chai latte.”

 

“Or tea,” Mycroft continues. “I can pick you up on my way to work in the morning. We can...  _ flirt. _ 6:15, please don’t be late.”

 

The line goes dead, and soon Philip is in a sleep so deep he could pass for dead too.

 

.

 

When his alarm blares to life at 5:55 in the morning, Philip curses every pagan deity he can think of, which, incidentally, numbered no more than two as his brain was still revolting from the agony of the alarm.

 

He splashes some water on his face, takes a quick shower and piss, brushes his teeth, shaves, wonders if he had some kind of bizarre fever dream last night, nicks himself, and then gets dressed.

 

At 6:14 Philip opens his front door and jogs down the stairs, only to have the soul scared straight out of his body when a big takeaway cup is shoved in front of his face when he reaches the bottom step.

 

The cup is attached to a manicured hand attached to a lovely lady who hasn’t once looked up from her BlackBerry.

 

“Chai latte,” she says. He voice is high, disdainful, and efficient. “He appreciates your promptness; he so hates when people are late.”

 

“Um,” Philip replies intelligently.

 

“You say that a lot,” she says, handing him the cup and marching away. There are three cars, practically a motorcade by Philip’s standards, and it seems he is meant to get in the middle one.

 

Philip nods towards the scary driver man and hugs his bag a bit closer, grasping the chai latte cup hard enough to feel his hand burn, and gingerly slides into the back seat.

 

The sight before him as the door closes takes his breath away. 

 

Mycroft Holmes at 6:15 in the morning and fresh as a daisy in a wonderful navy suit that makes his eyes  _ glow _ and a tie that does wonders for his complexion. Philip palms at the hair on his head, wondering if he looks like some kind of maniac-zombie who just dug himself out of a gutter by comparison.

 

“Um.”

 

“Good morning, Philip,” Mycroft greets him.

 

“Yes, beautiful. Beautiful morning it is.”

 

Mycroft looks out at the gray skies and raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Eye of the beholder, I suppose.”

 

Philip notices the man has a cup of his own, and smiles.

 

“So,” he says, giving Philip a small, comfortable smile. “Get to know each other, was it? I’m afraid I have a bit of an advantage, here, but, please, tell me about yourself.”

**Author's Note:**

> idk if it's a standalone or what or where this is going
> 
> idk what's happening


End file.
